


Talking to Stone

by Niargem



Series: Maedhros in Madness [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Grief/Mourning, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Poor Maedhros, Post-Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 04:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17460383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niargem/pseuds/Niargem
Summary: In which a guilt-ridden and grieving Maedhros talks to a statue of Fingon after the Fall of Doriath.





	Talking to Stone

The moon rose high among the strips of cloud strewn over the stars of Varda, gleaming in its eternal grace and residue of light as it lain upon the dark bed of the sky. Snow fell steadily about the air, soft and silent it was which feigned tranquility to the otherwise barren wasteland of Hithlum.

Maedhros' footsteps were small, hesitant and reluctant as he went. The snow below his feet feeling like quicksand, pulling his feet within its reach despite of his elven feet, and he let it, for the weight of the shadows of his regret still planted him upon the ground. The grand gates of Hithlum, if it can even still be called that, stood only a few feet away. And its once grandeur was coated by the white snow, its once pride and dignity buried by the heavy weight of destruction. What once was silver and blue was now white and red, the banners teared asunder as the ruins of what was a castle battered upon the ground.

As he walked closer, he can hear faint sounds of voices, of the voices of easterlings plungering still the works of his kin, of what jewelries that were left, of what armories and weapons that still lie unused.

With no hesitation, he strode forward with eyes colder than ice, and looked down upon the horrified faces of the betrayers and the dishonorable.

"You--!" The sharp-toothed easterling growled, tripping upon his own feet.

The other one, younger and with eyes that still have not conquered the art of hiding his fear, stepped away from the hoard, "It's Maedhros the Kinslayer!"

Quickly Maedhros unsheathed his sword and bathed it with their blood, their screams falling on deaf ears. Red spilled upon the untainted snow and the tainted hoard of his cousin's belongings, seeping into every nook and crevice of the treasure.

There was no pity or regret in Maedhros' eyes when he left, letting their bodies rot and be buried under the unceasing snow of this year's harsh winter while he fixed his feet to stay upon the road towards the castle's courtyard, the reason as to why he was here.

He climbed the large walls, some broken and casted down. Some still bore the banners of Fingolfin despite it being strewn and battered. Fingon, when he still lived, did want to keep the memory of his father alive despite their people grieving his death all too mournfully. 

He remembered when Fingon sang to him of his laments, of his attempts to create him a song befitting of Fingolfin's valour and legend when no one else did due to their grief, but Fingon's voice always broke, and his tears always spilled, and the song came no more. He never was able to finish it.

Maedhros' feet landed with a thud upon the stoned ground, his fingers shivering but not due to the cold. He rose his eyes, and then his feet, as his eyes set upon Fingon who stood rigid at the center of the courtyard. His skin was silver, still seemingly gleaming despite months of no care. His braided hair fell beautifully upon his waist, some resting upon the fronts of his shoulders, the ribbons upon his hair exclusively carved in gold.

Upon his lips, there stood a perfectly carved smile that Maedhros' remembered Fingon fought for.

_"You think I would allow them to carve a statue of me not being me at all? Let me smile, for Eru's sake! So they can remember Fingon the Valiant undaunted by even the greatest of conflicts!" Fingon's fair voice bellowed upon the halls, his optimism and cheerful mannerisms enough to light up the dark halls of his father without needing for lamps to be hewned._

__

__

_"It is going to be exceptionally hard to sculpt such a large smile in marble, Finno." Maedhros teased, in which Fingon laughed loudly at and simply said that he knew the artists and sculptors would love the added challenge._

When it was completed, the statue was perfectly made; a masterpiece in its own right, almost capturing Findekáno in all of his grace, valour, strength and his good of heart, one that Fingolfin approved of for he was the one who commissioned it, and even Maedhros himself grew fond of it despite arguing how it never captured the light perfectly within Findekáno's eyes.

But now, Maedhros treasured and lamented the statue above all else.

Despite its beauty and grace, it stood like a lone tree in the courtyard. Despite the smile upon his silver face, the ruins and broken walls surrounding what once was the statue's kingdom sent a profound grief awakening once again in Maedhros' heart every time he sets his foot upon this place. 

Fingon had no grave. The enemy did not give them the luxury to bury his body. All he had left of him was the golden ribbon braided into his hair, and the memories that still played clear and true within his thoughts as if they only happened yesterday, yet still felt like they had occurred a lifetime ago, when things were starkly different, when the light of Fingon still graced their lands.

"It has been 34 years since you died." Maedhros uttered to the statue, heart failing at his mind's madness, always yearning to hear his voice replying knowing it would never happen, "The pain still feels as ripe as it had been before."

He took out the bouquet of cyclamen flowers from his satchel, and placed it upon the feet of Fingon's statue, swiping away the remnants of dead leaves and branches that he placed a year before on the pedestal.

"Cyclamen. I finally was able to find them at the North; you've always been so picky with the flowers you planted in your garden." Maedhros inquired, as if he was still living, "Though I should say it was mine, but you were the one who took care of it, anyway."

He rose again, and looked upon Fingon's face. No sound came, not even the howling of the wind to accompany Maedhros' turbulent thoughts. He was right, however, about the statue being incapable of capturing the light in Findekáno's eyes. It never reigned more true until now.

"Fingon..." Maehros uttered his name softly, more gently, as if it was a delicate thing, and it was strange for Fingon was far from delicate, he fought valiantly until his untimely end. He ignored the trembling of his fingers as he traced the sculpted braids upon his hair, the marble feeling smooth upon his skin contrasting the prickly feelings now stabbing upon his chest. He felt a sudden weight that pulled down at his heart, as his memories now travelled to a more recent one, of another action he committed that can never be undone.

"I wonder if you would still love me after knowing what I have done." His sight was ruined by the unceasing snow, "I have orchestrated a kinslaying, and caused the death of Dior's family and people, and two of his innocent children."

He paused, as if waiting for a reaction to his revelation that never came. Fingon's statue still smiled as if nothing ever cruel had occurred, had happened, as if all was still well in the fair lands of Beleriand now mingled with too much grief.

"Would you understand that I had to do it? To fulfill the oath? To finally hold a Silmaril within my hand?" He continued, his voice barely above a whisper, dangerously crawling through every word with a silent vehemence dripping from it, but it quickly grew to a perilous shout unmindful of other ears, "It costed me three of my brothers, Fingon! Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir had been slain. And it all had been for naught, for the quest is still not achieved! The Silmaril escaped still from within our grasps!"

The howling of the wind welcomed his voice, hollow and terrible in his ears. He felt his throat scratching, and a prick upon his eyes that made him blink. And that was when his eyes fell, and he felt something warm dripping down his cheeks, a contrast to the sharp, cold snow that seemed to pin needles at his skin. It was intense enough that he lets his forehead rest upon the cold, winter skin of Fingon's own, seeking contact, still seeking his warmth despite the many years that had passed, still seeking his comfort and understanding, to will away the coldness of the world.

But a part of Maedhros has grown to accept a firm belief, that he deserved the cold. Deserved, indeed, the suffering and the pain that fell upon him due to his deeds, and he knows that he cannot stop.

Because if he did, it will all be pointless.

All those death... nothing. It would end up nothing.

"Though they escaped," He traced Fingon's sculpted cheek with the back of his fingers, thoughts away yet as present as it could be, "We know where they have headed. It would not be long now. I will avenge my brothers' deaths."

And despite knowing Fingon was not this statue, despite knowing his beloved's spirit trails now in the Halls of Mandos, he still stole a kiss upon his lips, brief and faint, though It was hard and felt sickeningly cold upon Maedhros' lips. And it did not quell the thundering guilt and sorrow within his thoughts and his heart.

He felt his frame grew rigid as he pulled away quickly afterwards. He gazed at the unchanging expression upon the statue, and felt his heart seemingly steeled at a moment's notice.

Fingon, for some reason he cannot bring any words to, seemed thoughtful.

What followed then was Fingon's faint voice seemingly singing far within his thoughts. Fair it sounded still, like the first time he had heard his voice as a mere whisper in the wind in Thangorodrim, pulling him from the darkness that threatened to claim him. But now, the words were lost and he could no longer grasp them.

It seemed so far away.

He opted to now swipe away traces of snow upon Fingon's visage, remembering how his hair resembled the dark night when coated with white snowflakes, like how the stars gleamed and shone upon the sky bed.

"I will complete the quest, Fingon." He swore, eyes boring into the lifeless ones of Fingon's, "I and my brothers will not be doomed to the void. I'll see you as soon as the quest is achieved, and there will be no more flowers for graves, but only for everlasting gratitude."

He said, in finality. He took a step back, but halted his steps as his eyes lingered on the newly-laden snow upon his shoulders. Gripping then the brooch that fastened his coat, he took it off and wrapped it around Fingon.

"Here." He uttered, giving him a smile he knows not where he pulled it from, "You can have this. I know you've always hated the cold. But do not fret, as you always said, for spring will come soon."

_Our own spring shall come soon._

_No matter how terrible the winter had been before._

And for some reason, Fingon's sculpted smile now seemed comforting, and Maedhros indulged himself in the sight.

**Author's Note:**

> I suspected Maedhros' fall to madness isn't all at once during the end of the War of Wrath, instead every single thing he experienced accumulated to what lead him choosing his own end, which is why he does not seem too sane here.
> 
> Feedback is always welcome!


End file.
